Helen woke at dawn, made breakfast, packed her husband’s lunch, and only then went to rouse him.
“Love, why so much? I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, eyeing the hefty bag.
“You’ll need food for two days. No time to cook there—just heat it up. Don’t fuss. There’s warm clothes too. Nights are chilly now. Drink your tea before it cools,” Helen dismissed him with a wave.
Her husband ate heartily, dressed, and grabbed the bag.
“Off I go. You go back to bed,” he said, stepping out.
Helen shut the door behind him, returned to the kitchen, and glanced out the window. She knew halfway across the yard, Alex would turn and wave. True enough, he paused, looked back at the house, and raised his hand. She waved back, smiling to herself. “Like newlyweds.” A warm contentment settled in her chest.
Since retiring, she’d taken to seeing him off like this—whether to work or their cottage. They’d been married twenty-six years. Not so long, considering their age. Both had pasts, earlier loves.
Helen hated being alone. She’d have gone to the cottage, but she’d promised their daughter to babysit today. She sighed. Sleep seemed pointless. Too early to clean—vacuuming at 6 a.m. in a flat with paper-thin walls? Unthinkable.
For lack of better, she lay down in her dressing gown. Drifting through thoughts, she dozed off.
A dream came—Gran’s old dog, Bruno, big and shaggy, bounding toward her, tail wagging. “Bruno, hello! Where’ve you been?” she reached to pet him, but he bared his teeth. She yanked her hand back, startled…
Helen jerked awake. Empty room. No Bruno, couldn’t be—he’d died when she was fourteen. The clock said she’d slept ten minutes. She shut her eyes again. “The dead dream of storms, dogs dream of kin,” she mused—then the doorbell rang. Who on earth at this hour?
She sat up, slipped on slippers, and shuffled to the hall. The bell rang again, impatient.
“Coming, coming,” she grumbled, opening the door.
The sight nearly made her slam it. They say first instincts are right. Later, she wished she’d obeyed. Her younger sister stood there. Helen’s heart thrashed like a trapped bird.
“Hello, sis,” Claire drawled, stressing the last word, lips peeling back in a grin.
Large teeth jutted forward, pale gums showing. “So much for dreams not meaning anything,” Helen thought, recalling Bruno’s snarl. The visit boded no good.
Different fathers, ten years apart. Helen’s dad died in a crash; three years later, Mum remarried and had Claire. No resemblance—Helen plump, soft-featured, gentle; Claire tall, gaunt, horsey-faced with those prominent teeth.
“Going to keep me on the doorstep?” Claire asked.
Helen could’ve shut the door. But blood was blood, unwanted or not.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside.
Claire kicked off her heels, fluffed her hair in the mirror, then eyed Alex’s slippers. Helen nudged out guest ones—too small, but they’d do.
“Show me how you live,” Claire said, sweeping into the living room, devouring every detail.
“Proper posh, aren’t you? Fancy furniture, fancy décor…” She turned, and for a flash, Helen saw envy, malice—then the grin returned, teeth like tombstones. That dream again.
“Landed well, didn’t you? Where’s the hubby?”
“At the cottage,” Helen muttered.
“A cottage too? Bloody bourgeois,” Claire said, tone dripping with “we’ll see about that.”
“Why are you here?” Helen’s composure frayed.
“Missed you. We’ve only got each other now,” Claire said, picking up a photo of Helen’s daughter and grandson. “Who’s this? Yours?”
Silence.
“Me? I’m alone. Mike and I split quick. Two more husbands after—no better than the first. Not worth the swap,” Claire confided.
“Stole those too, did you?” Helen snapped.
“Ooh, bitter. Who digs up the past loses an eye.” Claire’s crooked grin widened. “Not here to fight.”
“Then why? Nostalgia? Or to take something else from me?”
“Touchy. How old’s your daughter?” Claire ignored the jab.
“Twenty-eight.”
“So you married two years later. Rushed the kid to keep him, eh?” Claire cackled at her own joke.
“His daughter,” Helen said, then cursed herself for justifying.
“Truce? Fancy a cuppa?” Claire chirped.
As Claire gushed over the kitchen, Helen reheated the kettle.
“How long are you staying?”
“Kicking me out already?” Claire volleyed back.
Silence. Helen willed her to say she’d leave after tea.
“Just tonight? Hate hotels. Hubby’s away anyway. Gone tomorrow,” Claire said, dashing hope.
“Where to?”
“The coast. Last bit of sun. Thought I’d drop in. Shame you’re not pleased.” A theatrical sigh. “Honestly, after all these years—still holding a grudge? I was dumb, dunno why I did it. Mike and I flopped. He’s married now—two boys. Happy. And you’re not starving. Worked out best, really.”
Helen missed “last bit,” but old wounds split open.
“Forgive you? You wrecked my life!”
“Pfft. You’re married, comfortable. And your Mike? Middling in bed,” Claire smirked.
The talk looped—pointless, toxic. Helen set out tea, biscuits.
“Not joining? I don’t bite.” Claire nodded at the single cup.
“Already ate with Alex.”
“Ohhh.”
“Ta for the brew. Mind if I leave my bag? Fancy a wander. You’ll be in?” Claire asked after.
“Babysitting this afternoon.”
Claire’s brow arched.
“Spare key? Hate waiting outside. Relax, not after your tat.”
Helen hesitated but handed it over. Later, she checked—cash, docs, jewelry still hidden. With Claire, you never knew.
She’d been prettier than Claire but quieter, shyer. Claire spun men like tops—had them flocking.
Helen and Mike were school sweethearts. He proposed after the army. Wedding plans rolled—until she found him in bed with Claire. She fled to another town. Claire? Unfazed. They married. Mum begged forgiveness in letters.
Helen couldn’t forgive. Eventually, she met Alex in a shop—his little girl wailing for a doll he couldn’t afford. Helen bought it. The girl clung to her. His wife had died six months prior.
When he proposed, Helen said yes, knowing he didn’t love her. The girl called her “Mum” straight off. They grew into love. A miscarriage stopped more kids, but she adored Alice like her own.
A call from Alice snapped her back. “On my way,” Helen said.
She called Alex en route—told him Claire had come.
Home that evening, every light blazed. Her stomach dropped. Alex back early?
The TV blared. Claire lounged with wine, near-empty bottle and chocolate box at her feet. Smoke hung thick. Helen flung windows open.
“Smoke outside!” She turned the TV down. “Celebrating?”
“Join me. Oh wait—you’re too proper.” Claire’s words slurred as she drained her glass.
“When are you leaving tomorrow?” Helen demanded.
“Staying two more days. Stuff came up. Relax, not after your man. Or booting me out?” Her gaze swam.
Arguing with drunks was futile. Helen stayed silent. Alex would be home tomorrow…
She barely slept, resolved to send Claire packing. Morning—Claire was gone. Sensing the mood?
Alex returned early. Helen spilled everything. When Claire came back, Helen broached the hotel idea—their bond wasn’t “live together” close.
“You owe me. Not leaving till I get what’s mine,” Claire declared.
“After what you did?”
“Gran’s house.”
“What?”
“My dad fixed it up. Half’s mine.”
“We sold it after Mum died. Alex has the cottage.”
“Mum leave a will?” Claire’s eyes narrowed.
“No. Sudden death. We didn’t know where you were.”
“I’ll sue. I’m heir too.”
“You want half?” Alex guessed.
“Finally,” Claire said.
“Fine. Take it,” Alex said, ignoring Helen’s glare.
“Don’t cheat me. I asked the neighbors—know what it sold for.”
That night, Helen fretted: “What if she demands more?”
Alex shook his head. “Not worth the hassle. Peace costs less.”
Next day, he slid Claire a fat envelope. SheShe never saw Claire again, but the weight of that final, fractured goodbye lingered, a quiet sorrow for the sister she’d lost long before the cancer took her.
